


the dawn will come

by fallfromstars



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfromstars/pseuds/fallfromstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Because it has to.)</p><p>Lady Sabriel Trevelyan, a mage formerly of the Ostwick Circle, does what she can to help Commander Cullen's lyrium withdrawal. [Cullen Rutherford x Inquisitor Mage!Trevelyan, established relationship, triggers for drug withdrawal]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dawn will come

**the dawn will come  
  
“…and I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.”  
**

**—  
Carol Ann Duffy, “Rapture”**  
  
_Sabriel Trevelyan does what she can to ease the pain of her Commander’s lyrium withdrawal._

After ushering her tea into a small tin with her gloved hands, Sabriel inhales the scent of her labor. The tea she had made before each mage’s Harrowing sits in a form of itself, in front of her. She thinks again of the small corner of the garden she’d had in her Circle at Ostwick, of the hours she spent carefully cultivating her leaves and measuring out small pinches of cinnamon and squeezes of lemon to make the tea sit right in the cups.

For a moment, it is almost like she is back there, and nothing has changed—

But then the Anchor beats against her skin, the bright green glow reminding her of how much everything has changed. The roar of the waterfalls that surround Skyhold’s undercroft come back to her ears. Somewhere, the man who needs this tea is hearing another song, one that will drive him to ruin if she does nothing.

Sabriel makes her excuses when the smiths inquire after what’s in the tin and kettle— _I’m so sorry, Dagna, Harritt, another time_. She rushes through a crowd of Orlesian nobles in the main hall who are too eager to say much to her besides “Your Worship!” She knows she is skipping out on an appointment with one of them—she’s always left it to Josephine to remember the names, which seemed to change by the hour—but she will make up for it later. She is needed elsewhere.

* * *

 

It has been three days since Cullen threw the philter at his door and admitted to her that he felt like he was losing the battle against the song he’d listened to for most of his life. Sabriel had given him his space and tried to be gentler with him and his duties.

But she had also pilfered through all the books available in Dorian’s small nook that even had an index mention of lyrium. There was not much information on it that proved useful, and Dorian had even pointed out that the information she had would be called sensational at best by anyone. But the third day was supposed to be the worst, and she did not want Cullen to endure it alone, not on the off-chance that the books might be right.

When she opens Cullen’s door, she only hears the shivering sounds of fever above her. She ascends the ladder and finds him without his furs framing his shoulder or his armor rooting him to the earth. He looks almost light, fragile without it, convulsing in agony underneath his thin blanket. His eyes are closed shut, as if he is trying to force the fever from his body.  

She wastes no time with niceties, letting a flame dance on some of her fingers to heat the kettle she carries even as she brings an icy hand against his forehead. Cullen’s eyes snap open at the sensation, and for a moment fear clouds his vision until he realizes that he does not need to be worried about being alone.

“ _Sabriel_ ,” he says, and though his voice is hoarse and broken, her name in his mouth is still one of her favorite things in this world. “Please—you don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure you have other matters—”

“‘ _To attend_ ,’ yes, Cullen,” Sabriel says, smiling. For as well-mannered as Cullen was, his niceties tended to sound the same after a while. She’d have to help him practice that if he was _ever_ to survive her Great-aunt Lucille’s summer balls, but that was a problem for another day. “But right now, you are my main matter.”  
  
She removes her icy hand once the kettle starts whistling.

“What do you have?” he asks her, trying to focus on the tin and the kettle.

“I told you I was trying to become a senior enchanter before I went to the Conclave,” Sabriel reminds him. Cullen nods, though she wonders if he truly remembers. How could he when his brain was racked with a hunger for something he would never have again? “I would make this for the mages on the night before their…”  
  
His eyes are clouded, but his hand grasps for hers.  _I am listening_ , he is telling her.  _I am. Let me come back to you, but I am listening._  
  
“Before their Harrowing,” she continues softly. “And I would do this because they were scared, and because it would lend them strength when they needed it. I had been through it, and survived, so it was my duty to help them then. As it is mine to help you now.”  
  
Cullen’s eyes come back clear and he looks up at her, focuses on short dark hair cut at her chin, eyes ringed with kohl, the pink of her lips, to stay with her.  
  
“I am no mage, Sabriel,” he says, but it is a soft protest, almost an apology. “It might not work for me. I...face no Harrowing.”  
  
“You face something just as intimidating,” Sabriel rebuts, pouring the heated water into two small cups she finds in Cullen’s small, single chest of belongings. “And I will see you through it.”  
  
“You shouldn’t worry—” Cullen starts again, but Sabriel holds up a pale hand.  
  
“I’m allowed to worry about my Commander,” she tells him.  
  
And then, whisper-soft, secret-quiet: “I’m allowed to worry about the man I love.”  
  
Cullen’s eyes grow wide at the word. “Sabriel…you truly…?”  
  
“Yes,” Sabriel says, though part of her is now upset she did not save it for a sunset dinner when Cullen was his full self again. But just in case—in case they didn’t make it—if she didn’t, or if he—  
  
She cannot, will not think of it.  
  
“I love you, Cullen,” she says again, because it is true, and sharing the truth is right, and because the lines on his face ease when she says it. “And I am here for you.”  
  
“I love you, too,” he says as strongly as he can, but it is too soft for her liking, and so she urges his cup to his lips.   
  
He takes a tentative sip of the tea, then quickly takes eager mouthfuls. Whatever she has done, she has done wonderfully. Sabriel blinks back tears at the sight of it. Cullen is doing something with strength, with gusto, and it is a good sign, according to all the books she’s read.  
  
She watches over him all the rest of the day, and all the rest of the night, holds his hand as he walks through dark parts of the Fade, the shadow of his memory, and she is an anchor unto him even as he drifts from her.  
  
“You will come back to me,” she tells him, whispers into his ear as she holds onto him, even as sleep threatens to overtake her. “You will. You will always come back. You are strong, and you _can_ endure this.”  
  
(It is exactly what she said to each mage who started weeping in her arms, asking her to take them away from the Harrowing that waited in the morning. She is used to it.  
  
But this is the first time she has said it with tears on her face.)

* * *

 


End file.
